I’d seen Blackjack before in a photo on Liberty’s wall from her younger days. This was the first time I was close enough to see the lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his jaw worked like he’d been chewing on anger all day and hadn’t found anything tough enough yet.
He moved as soon as Jersey took his helmet off.
“Get over here, asshole,” Blackjack said.
Jersey stepped forward. Blackjack reached out, fisted a hand in the front of his cut, and slammed their foreheads together. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to say I’m here, you’re here, and I’m going to beat you if you scare me like that again.
They stayed there for a second, brow to brow before Blackjack let him go.
8-Ball stepped up and clapped him on the back, rough enough to rock him. “Good to see you, kid,” he said.
“Some people starting to think you got adopted,” Turnpike snorted.
A ripple of dark laughter moved through the men. It broke something in the tight quiet around us. They didn’t hug. They didn’t say they’d been worried. They just insulted him like they were afraid he might disappear if they acknowledged the hole he’d left.
It felt familiar in a way I didn’t like admitting.
Blackjack finally let him go and lookedpast him.
At me.
“Valkyrie,” he said. “Yeah?”
“Blackjack,” I replied with a nod. “Big welcoming party.”
He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “High alert means more bodies. And besides, you brought my Enforcer back breathing, put a Serpent in the dirt and cartel dogs under your heel,” he said. “You get more than just a wave from the porch.”
He stuck his hand out.
I took it.
His grip was firm, but not testing. Respect, not a challenge. Our eyes met and held. I saw the same thing I’d seen in Liberty on the night she’d handed me a napkin with her writing on it.
A predator who knew exactly how much blood was about to be spilled and was already counting the cost.
“Welcome to the Devil’s Aces clubhouse,” Blackjack said formally. “While you’re under this roof, you’re not a guest. You’re one of ours.”
“Careful,” I said. “You say that too loud, someone’s going to think you’ve gone soft.”
“If they’re dumb enough to say it out loud,” he replied, “they won’t be talking for long.”
8-Ball’s gaze flicked past us to the gate, the street, the shadows. “Close her back up,” he ordered.
“Inside,” Blackjack then said. “We talk, then we sit in Church. War council after that.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
***
The Aces’ clubhouse smelled like motor oil, sweat, stale beer, and lemon cleaner someone had resignedly thrown at the walls that morning.
Not that much different from ours, really. Just louder. More trophies. Less lipstick.
Photos lined the walls—old runs, older bikes, men who weren’t breathing anymore. A few framed newspaper clippings about arrests, accidents, some “human interest” bullshit piece about bikers doing a toy run. Their colors hung behind the bar like altars. A few cuts also adorned the walls, perhaps fallen members or retired. Could have been either.
It was a home for monsters. Same as mine. Just in different paint.
Blackjack’s office sat off the main room. Smaller than Liberty’s. Cluttered in a way that said he knew where everything was even if no one else did. Maps pinned to one wall. A battered desk that had seen more than just paperwork. Two chairs in front, one behind. 8-Ball took up a space by the filing cabinet like he’d grown roots there.
